


Gunpowder Tim Exterminates the Corruption

by WillowWispFlame



Series: So Sings a Song of Slaughter [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Animal Death, Ants, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Gen, MAG055 - Pest Control, Slaughter Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Mechanisms Are Grifter's Bone, The Mechanisms Were The Archivist's College Band, The Mechanisms!Jordan Kennedy, but the animals are all bugs, minor appearances from the other mechanisms/their canon counterparts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowWispFlame/pseuds/WillowWispFlame
Summary: Jordan Kennedy has come across a lot of strange things during his time as a pest control specialist, but singing bugs and overly combustible men were not mentioned anywhere in the paperwork.It is a good thing that he doubles as singer and guitarist Gunpowder Tim of the Mechanisms on the side.
Series: So Sings a Song of Slaughter [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775218
Comments: 47
Kudos: 220
Collections: So Sings a Song of Slaughter





	1. 2011

**Author's Note:**

> [Gassed Last Night](https://youtu.be/mJq_q7LlOig) is by the Mechanisms, and in italics. 
> 
> This one is very Jordan Kennedy - Gunpowder Tim focused. Hope you enjoy!

Jordan Kennedy comes by pest control honestly. 

Higher education, college, high paying jobs, all that sort of stuff that his parents wanted him to accomplish - he didn’t really want it for himself. So, when his grades weren’t quite what the colleges were looking for, he looked elsewhere for something to do.

The job market was the obvious choice, and while a low-tier high school education wasn’t enough to get some high paying job, it was certainly enough for the less desirable options out there. Jordan’s mother taught him good work ethic, and his father’s poor choices informed him to keep clean, so when he scored a job as a starting pest control specialist, he was able to keep it. 

His first supervisor, and teacher, was an older man named Bertie. He was a large man with a neatly styled handlebar mustache and a kind voice that went sharp whenever he spoke above conversation volume. Bertie taught Jordan where to look for the thin cracks in houses where insects could wriggle their way through, how to lay bait for unwary ants to bring back to their colonies, and where to look for the paths mice used to sneak around houses. How to handle the infestations that had grown out of control far too quickly. 

The old man always had a weary look on his face whenever they tackled swarms.

“It isn’t right,” he sighed, pulling a tank of insecticide on his back. “Bees are different from other pests, they’re pacifists.”

“Pacifists?” Jordan asked, already draping his head with the special netted hat which their employer had supplied them with for jobs like this one. “Then why are we gearing up for war here,” he joked. 

“You know, if you don’t provoke a bee then it won’t sting ya. I always liked bees, just humming along, minding the flowers, singing their little bee songs. Wish these folks would call a beekeeper instead of us.”

“Then we wouldn’t be getting paid,” Jordan retorted. He checked the bee smoker, ensuring that the little pitcher-shaped thing was filling up with the smoke that would make the bees lethargic and easy to handle.

“Aye, we wouldn’t,” said Bertie sadly. “But these little furry guys would live to see tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should become a beekeeper,” Jordan suggested as he began smoking the hive that had started to form above the front door of their client’s house. Apparently the bees had decided the location was perfect while the family was out of town, and had set up shop.

“A bit too old for that,” he laughed. “I would like to give them a home if I could though. Never forget that these critters we remove for folks are living beings too.”

Despite his misgivings, Bertie always did the job. If, on one job, the queen and a squadron of workers had been captured and placed in a nice aerated box, and if Bertie started to have consistently sticky hands after that, then he wasn’t going to mention it to their boss. The clients were happy to see the still drones on the ground and hive removed, no one needed to know that there were any survivors.

A few months later, Jordan was fully trained and Bertie had retired. The old man had left him a jar of honey to remember him by. It was sweet.   


Around five years after he had started in the pest control business, Jordan had never forgotten the old man’s lessons, but he was far less reserved with the realities of this job. After years and years in the business, you became a bit unsympathetic to those wriggling, writhing things that grew into homes like mold. A mouse was just another pest to trap, a hive was just another hive to smoke out and spray. A pest control specialist was just an exterminator. 

Jordan Kennedy wasn’t just an exterminator, though. He was also Gunpowder Tim, a member of the Mechanisms, the band that left the darkest corners of London running slick with blood wherever they performed. In the midst of the human lives which his voice and guitar could threaten, Jordan wasn’t too worried about the moralities involved in killing bugs. 

[]++++||=======>

Gunpowder Tim liked to sing as he carried out his job. Exterminating was a lonely job, no more partners to pass the time with. It was comforting, the songs. When he sang for himself, he felt more confident. Less like cowardly Jordan Kennedy and more like the immortal Mechanism he wanted to be.

Gunpowder Tim was never intimidated by bugs. After the Mechanisms had confronted the monster mantis the year before, he couldn’t help but dismiss the regular sized ones as insignificant. However, if you gather enough of them in one place, it becomes hard to dismiss a swarm that had more mass put together than that monster.

“ _ Gassed last night, and gassed the night before _ _   
_ _ Gonna be gassed tonight if we’re never gassed no more _ ”

He sang, more to keep his thoughts away from how disgusting this house was than for any enjoyment. The thin film of oily residue left on his gloves by the door was stomach turning, the ant-filled home more so. No wonder the woman who had hired him hadn’t wanted to be here during this. He hoped that she had found a different place to stay long before it had gotten this bad. Judging from the fact that the house contained no belongings, he guessed that it was recently vacated and left for the ants. Living with an infestation like this would have been dreadful.

“ _ When you’re gassed, you’re sick as you can be _ _   
_ _ ‘Cause novichok and mustard gas are much too much for me _ ”

The horrific carpet of ants swarmed at the edges of the path he sprayed through the room, little drones crawling over the flat surfaces of the empty house. Empty except for ants, of course. Gunpowder Tim was tempted to live up to his name in this moment, and blow it all to smithereens. It would take hours and hours of work to clean the home, even if he could get the job done. At least there wasn’t any furniture for them to burrow into.

“ _ They’re choking us, they’re choking us, _ _   
_ _ One respirator and it broke on us. _ ”

As he sang, he noticed the ants stop their fearsome random scrambling and instead form pairs and knots throughout the room. It was almost as if they were fighting amongst themselves. Maybe more than one colony had laid claim to the home, just now realizing that they swarmed among their enemies. Or perhaps the spray had messed with their pheromones unexpectedly, causing allies to turn on each other. Drone versus drone.

Or, more likely, ants were more susceptible to his singing than he expected. He was surprised to say the least, but not particularly perturbed. The less money spent on spray, the better for his wallet. The singing was working faster at killing the ants than the spray.

“ _ Thank your lucky stars that the pumps still work _ _   
_ _ ‘Cause coughing up your lungs can be a chore _ ”

Tim made his way through the ground floor and eventually made his way to the kitchen. Everything had been removed. The counters, cabinets, and even the sink. The only elements of the room marking it as the kitchen were the rusty metal pipes sticking out of the wall for the missing sink and an old, yellowing refrigerator. The fridge was absolutely swarmed with thick, black ants and seemed to pulse to its own beat. 

As he came closer, still humming to “Gassed Last Night” under his breath, he heard it. 

The refrigerator was buzzing, swelling as it pulsed. It was almost musical in nature, like a drumbeat. 

Gunpowder Tim stopped humming to listen, the cursed song which haunted him still stirring in his bones enough to keep his persona from falling. Left to buzz alone, the sounds from the fridge seemed to grow louder, and he could hear something like a choir of wordless voices rise to join it. He realized after a moment that the accompanying choir was coming from the ants swarming at the edges of his spray. The numbers of active insects had been reduced, little curled up bodies littering the floor, but there were still multitudes. 

Tim took a step back, his heel crunching into the mass of ants he had accidentally backed into. Quick as a whip, he turned his spray on his ankle, dousing the swarm that had lunged up it in a moment and driving them back. 

He retreated along the path that he had carved, away from the awful harmonizing that filled the kitchen and made his head swim. He needed to clear his mind, distance himself from whatever was in that fridge. Maybe this home was cursed, a different curse from the one that swirled around the Mechanisms like a miasma, but cursed all the same. This infestation was unlike any he had encountered before. Even that last bee swarm with Bertie hadn’t been this bad, and those bees had tried to sting through their uniforms. At least the buzzers hadn’t tried to get inside his head like these ants and whatever was sealed in there. 

Tim stepped outside, gasping in the fresh outside air like a thirsty man in an oasis in the middle of the desert. The events that came next passed in the blur. The homeowner confronted him as he took a smoke break to ease his nerves. Said homeowner, covered in the same oily substance which coated the inside of his house, attempted to strangle him. In return, Gunpowder Tim lit the man aflame with his lighter, and made a run for it in his van. 

The smell was horrible, but the song which had echoed out of the house was worse. Tim somehow knew that it was the swarm, yearning for its master’s return. A thousand tiny voices joined as one to greet him. He gagged as it wafted over him. Once he made it home, he incinerated both his protective plastic suit and van’s seat cover. He could get new ones. 

After he calmed down, Jordan messaged the Mechanisms’ group chat. 

Basira responded almost immediately, promising to follow up on the case if it was called in.

Kofi reacted with several angry flaming emojis, which made Jordan laugh and oddly feel better about the situation.

Alex offered to rough up the man who had tried to strangle him, which he appreciated. If Jordan ever saw the man again, he was ready to go full Gunpowder Tim on him, consequences be damned, and informed the band as such.

Raphaella offered her spare couch to him if he needed a place to stay after lighting a man on fire. 

Jordan remarked that the man must have been cursed like them, and took her up on the offer. At least for tonight. 

Ben responded last, asking for more details on the song Jordan heard the insects sing. He asked if Jordan was feeling  _ hungry _ .

Strangely, he felt more full than usual after the experience.

Neither Jon nor Jessica responded, but they hadn’t been active in the group chat for months.

Jon was throwing himself into his new job at the Magnus Institute single mindedly, as he was known to do. 

They had not heard much from Jessica since the last concert. She had moved back to Norwich, and had mentioned offhand that she was going to check out a circus that had come to town. That was a month ago, but they weren’t too worried.

Everyone would show up for the next performance, they always would.


	2. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan Kennedy is hired by Arthur Nolan to take care of a pest problem.
> 
> Read the other oneshots up to Drumbot Brian Flips a Switch before reading this chapter!

Two and a half years after discovering that his cursed music gave him certain advantages towards his career as an exterminator, Jordan Kennedy was having a great time. Business was booming, his customers were happily recommending his services through word of mouth, and he could afford to be picky with what jobs he took. 

It was a chilly afternoon in early spring, an odd time to be called out to handle a wasps’ nest, but Jordan was known for his quick responses to emergency calls. Apparently, one of his client’s tenants had been badly injured by this nest, so he suited up appropriately. A thick cotton suit, carefully checked over for rips and tears, which covered every inch of his body and protected against any sort of sting was the perfect tool for the job. He hadn’t had to bust it out of storage for a few months now, mostly since stinging insects were relatively tame during the winter months, but it was ready to go at a moment’s notice. 

He also grabbed a small, portable speaker and checked to make sure it had a charge. If this swarm of wasps proved to be more than the insecticide could handle, he had other methods for taking care of the infestation. 

Mainly, using his powers for what little good they could provide to the world. 

Jordan parked his van out in front of the residence, jerking to a stop. A short, older gentleman with feather thin white hair waited for him, chewing on a thick cigar. As Jordan cut his engine and opened the van’s door, he heard something like the slow, monotonous tolling of church bells. 

He met the gaze of the landlord, Arthur Nolan, evenly. 

In return, the man clenched down on his cigar and breathed in heavily. The end of the roll of tobacco lit up briefly before fading down to a cinder again. “You the pest control guy?” Arthur asked.

“That’ll be me,” Jordan said as he started to unload what he needed. He explained the process to Arthur, the usual talk about needing the building clear of tenants and exactly what he needed to do. All throughout, the tolling of bells rang from the man. Slowly, steadily, non-threateningly. Resigned.

Arthur looked him up and down with a sharp, burning gaze. “Alright,” he said, handing him the key to flat four. “We’ll see how well you do against these bugs. You ever get rid of the real nasty corrupt ones?”

That gave Jordan pause, as he hefted the insecticide onto his back. He hesitated, looking the man over once more. He thought he could see the tip of a tattoo peeking up over the collar of his button up shirt. “Once,” he said. “It was ants, swarmed an entire house.”

Arthur nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke away from Jordan. “Heard about that one, John wasn’t too happy. I’ll be in flat one, let me know if you need anything,” he offered.

“Sure,” said Jordan. He grabbed his portable speaker from the center console as Arthur headed in. He had a feeling he was going to need it. 

As he headed up the ladder to flat four’s attic, he heard it. That chorus of voices, singing, swarming together. It wasn’t exactly the same as with the ants, they sang much sweeter, wilder, but he recognised it all the same. 

Jordan saw the nest, silent except for the peaceful choir. No wasps buzzed around it’s sickly exterior. It was unlike any wasps’ nest he had ever seen, with coarse angles jutting off of it wildly. It looked spongey, with a texture that was simply  _ off _ . Holes covered it. Thankfully, it did not pulse quite like the refrigerator the ants had swarmed before. 

Jordan took a deep breath, and Tim began to sing as he poked the nozzle of his spray deep into the thing’s mass.

“ _ Cooked last night, and cooked the night before _

_ Gonna be cooked tonight if we’re never cooked no more _ ”

Tim watched as the thing began to bubble and throb, pulsing like a piece of flesh that hadn’t learned that it was dead yet. It throbbed outward, inching along the nozzle as it blossomed outward. 

“ _ When you’re cooked, you’re hot as you can be _

_ ‘Cause the Kaiser wants to microwave the British infantry. _ ”

He sang in defiance, clicking on the little speaker strapped to the belt of his suit as he sang the next verse. The little speaker jolted, immediately skipping ahead in its song to accompany him with music. Tim had recorded all of his dispute with the Moonkaiser, Drumbot Brian lending a drumbeat to his efforts. If only he had been able to get Jonny to sing along, all he had were old recordings from before. 

Tim knew the lyrics to these five songs better than any, and always reached for them if he ever needed a little more kick. 

“ _ They’re boiling us, they’re boiling us, _

_ One lead sheet between the four of us. _ ”

Gunpowder Tim continued as the nest screamed out against him, hissing its chorus in anger and pain as it flinched back. What looked like larvae, worms unlike any species of wasp he had ever encountered or even researched, wriggled out of the nest’s holes before they stiffened and dropped dead. The nest warbled its song, trying to drown him out. But still, Tim cruelly sang on to the end of the song.

“ _ Thank your lucky stars that you taste so good _

_ ‘Cause we wouldn’t want your corpse to go to waste. _ ”

With the last snare beat, the whole nest slumped, falling from its perch on the wall with a splat. The chorus cut off with a yelp. Tim clicked off the speaker before it could start the next song in the sequence, spraying the last of the larvae that wriggled within the remains of the nest. He unrolled a plastic trash bag, and scooped the nest in with a tool. Although the nest was dead, he did not dare take off any of his protective gear. 

Once he had completely cleaned up the mess left, making sure to even scrub the remains off the wall, he returned down the ladder. He opened the door to the corridor, bag slung over his shoulder, and came face to face with Arthur Nolan, who looked surprised to see him alive. 

“Pest problem taken care of,” Tim said snarkily, shaking the bag slightly. 

His client took a good long moment to get over his shock. He finally asked, “Do you have somewhere to dispose of the rest?”

“Nothing better than an incinerator!” Tim said. He frowned as Arthur’s bells started to be accompanied by a sweet chorus. He swore, throwing the bag onto the ground behind him and backing Arthur up as it writhed against him.

“Let me take care of it,” Arthur said, his tolling bell growing louder as if to challenge the chorus. “The Slaughter is good, but the Lightless Flame is the most effective against these pests. You get out of here,” he said, unbuttoning his denim shirt and throwing it to the side. The tattoo he had spotted earlier was now entirely visible. It looked like a scar in the shape of a flaming face, writhing in pain. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Tim said and backed down the corridor, watching as Arthur pulled a matchbox out of his pocket and struck one. He pressed the flaming stick to his chest, flesh catching on fire immediately and spreading across his body like it was a drop falling into water. Tim turned and ran out of the building.

He stayed to watch the building catch, wondering if Arthur’s firey curse would allow the man to walk away from a structure fire. Honestly, he thought the man was a little overzealous. If a song could weaken the nest to fall into bits, certainly only a small fire had the ability to extinguish the remains. When the ECDC showed up alongside the fire brigade to quarantine him, Jordan forgot the oily stench that flowed alongside the smell of burning plaster.

He did agree to work with them on more unnatural pest cases, as a sort of specialist. It was what he was good at. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, canon.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will be inspired by the second half of Jordan's statement, and involve a time skip. Gunpowder Tim's problems with bugs aren't over, and he hasn't finished his song quite yet.


End file.
